


walk through your dreams and invent the future

by orphan_account



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: AU but the same level of extraness, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Housewarming Party, Introspection, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, References to MI, a lot of artsy hoe inner monologue but it's Sander so, also yes i made Robbe secretly like Placebo which was very emo of me, canon-related cucumber, rewrite of ep. 1, tension of the not very Christian kind, ugh i'm new to this and i suck at tagging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22254871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Right at the door is Noor, greeting Milan, Britt a few steps behind her. But ironically neither of them is the cause of what feels like an intense fight-or-flight response.What’s causing it is the person currently trailing behind them."or what if Robbe and Sander met at the housewarming party in ep. 1
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 6
Kudos: 106





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah. This is essentially based on my idea of Britt bringing Sander with her to Robbe's housewarming party in ep. 1, the "what-if" of this has been bugging me quite persistently, so i decided to explore it a bit. I'm sorry for any possible mistakes, English is a second language. Also, i've never written a word of fanfiction in my life (except for that random drabble that i posted here), so keep an open mind, i guess.
> 
> Since I posted part of this chapter on tumblr, I decided to write the rest of it and end it on a bit of a "cliffhager", because I feel it will be a motivation to write the rest sooner, better and it will generally help me save this baby fic from becoming a victim of my extreme procrastination.

Robbe is enjoying the shindig in the flat, the buzz of conversation and the warm red light — the homey atmosphere leaving a taste of hope and optimism, a sweetness he is quick to wash down with the warm beer he’s been nursing when he becomes aware of Moyo and Aaron’s conversation on _sexy chickies._ He’s briefly saved from it when Yasmina comes to them and after saying goodnight to Robbe, she makes her way out of the party.

“Look at _that,_ ” says Aaron, almost purring, gaze glued to the front door of the apartment and Robbe looks to his left.

“Hey, you’ve got it good," Moyo adds. "Your Noor, she radiates sex, man.” But Robbe doesn’t fully register the words, and they seem to come from very far away.

He feels like a steady electric current is buzzing through him, causing the muscles of his hand to contract around the bottle he’s holding, forcing him to swallow convulsively and blink a few times. Right at the door is Noor, greeting Milan, Britt a few steps behind her. But ironically neither of them is the cause of what feels like an intense fight-or-flight response.

What’s causing it is the person currently trailing behind them.

Robbe finds himself completely unable to tear his gaze away, the omnipresent shame and denial somehow going to the back of his mind without effort. His brain might as well be a separate entity right now, when self-control seems like a very distant concept.

 _His_ bleached blond hair is slightly unruly, few strands of it falling over his face and framing it, like angel-wing feathers barely touching his forehead. The contrast of slightly tanned skin makes Robbe wonder if touching the boy’s cheeks would feel like the warmth of the sun is seeping into him.

_Stop it._

_His_ lips are slightly swollen and rosy-red around the edges, like he’s been biting them, and they stretch into a crooked grin when he extends his hand to greet Milan.

His gaze lands on the paint stains on some of the boy’s knuckles and fingers, warm cinnamon and copper brown smudges that, for some inexplicable reason, give Robbe a weird fluttery feeling in his stomach.

He pauses and blinks, reminds himself that breathing is still a necessity and exhales before continuing.

There’s a confidence, almost a swagger in his step, but also a kind of graceful softness in the air around him and all his movements.

He lets his eyes wander over black-clad slender legs and worn-out leather jacket, under which peeks what seems like a band t-shirt. _I would listen to all of your favorite bands, if only because I want to hear how your voice sounds when you’re talking about them with excitement._

_Fuck. Stop that, get it together._

Looking from the ground under _his_ sturdy Docs all the way to the tufts of cloudlike hair, Robbe can sense his chest expanding with a feeling akin to the one he gets when he‘s gazing up at the night sky, and he briefly wonders if this is the intensity that drives scientists on their way to discovering something extraordinary, feels like he’s looking at a whole world, begging to be explored. Every inch of _him_ raises a question in Robbe’s brain, mind-boggling in a way that fills him with an unfamiliar sense of awe.

 _He_ is the most interesting juxtaposition of dark and light, of soft and hard-edged Robbe’s ever seen. He looks like his most platonic daydreams, but also like every honest and unfiltered concupiscent thought he’s ever had.

Robbe is dumbfounded, so enamored that he thinks he can almost see a warm halo all around _him_. _A mass of contradictions in a golden frame*_ , his mind supplies. Fuck, his brain is already betraying him, leaking lyrics of songs he wouldn’t admit to anyone that he likes, his defenses weakened.

He retraces everything his eyes have mapped and realizes there’s something missing — _the only uncharted territory,_ flashes through his mind — but even before the thought is finished, he finds a pair of green eyes looking right back at him.

He’s not sure if he is staring at the sea’s tranquility or the untamed forest wilderness, but it sure feels like he’s getting lost in both at the same time. Long dark lashes flicker, those eyes sweep all over his face and body and it almost looks like they are not so much assessing, as much as _confirming_ something.

He finds himself having that _I_ _wonder what they think of me_ moment, which should be something he’s used to by now. After all, he knows he’s living half a life with how often that thought flashes through his mind. But this feels _different._ He cuts off that train of thought, when he registers that Noor is coming his way with a sweet smile, while Britt is dragging _him_ inside the apartment.

Their gazes lock briefly again and— 

And Robbe might have perfected the art of denial and suppression, but not nearly enough to prevent the single thought from flashing like a warning sign:

_I’m positively fucked._

—

Dancing with Noor, wrapping his arms around her, even kissing her, is a habit that’s easy to develop. Even though they’ve known each other for a short time, it’s a well-practiced routine by now — one that sometimes requires various degrees of conscious detachment, but is mostly just inertia at this point.

Except it’s really _not_. Not right now. Robbe’s never felt so much like he’s trying to keep a house of cards from collapsing. He can feel _that_ gaze burning holes in his back, the sides of his face. It makes him hyper-aware of the rigidness of his posture, how stiff and unnatural his movements around Noor are. He feels like he's playing a role in a 2.5 kids-and-white picket fence family utopia in a shitty commercial and his smile feels plastic. It’s like that gaze is peeling layer by layer the hardest to maintain of all his carefully-constructed facades — the one intended to keep himself from himself.

He detaches himself from Noor. “I’m going to get something to drink, do you want anything?” he manages to make his voice sound a lot more steady than he actually feels.

“Noo, thank you,” she says, slurring slightly, gives him that warm smile that makes his heart clench with guilt every time, the feeling especially acute right now.

_Stop freaking out like there’s a nuclear meltdown happening, chill the fuck out._

He walks to the kitchen and stops at the door, trying to compose himself for a few seconds, every memory of his mom’s excited rants about mindfulness and meditation flashing through his mind. After calming a bit, he goes to the fridge and opens it, rummaging for something sedative enough. He finds a bottle of cheap whiskey, uncaps it and takes a chug that’s probably not proportional to his size and how little he’s eaten today.

“Is that some kind of housewarming initiation rite I wasn’t aware about?” an unfamiliar voice comes from behind.

Robbe gives himself a second to close his eyes, take a deep breath and mentally congratulate himself for that big gulp he just took.

Then he turns around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from "Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out" by Richard Siken
> 
> The lyrics Robbe's thinking of are from "Space Monkey" by Placebo. Also Placebo being his guilty pleasure is probably the most unrealistic and AU thing about this fic, but I couldn't help myself, the lyrics were way too fitting.
> 
> my tumblr is: musicofsilentkisses


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeez, this took a while, I'm obviously pretty slow when it comes to writing. This chapter is from Sander's POV, decided I might make things more interesting if I switch it.

He turns around and Sander’s breath catches in his throat, because his eyes are even warmer in the dim candle light in the kitchen. Because for the first time since that night by the garbage truck, _he_ actually seems _real_ , tangible, like more than a moonlit hallucination.

The boy’s brows knit together for a second and he bites his lip, probably pondering how to respond to his ridiculous conversation starter.

“Consuming alcohol?” Sander barely suppresses a shiver when he hears his alcohol-soaked voice, raspy, but so soft. “It’s an initiation rite for everything, if you’re enthusiastic enough,” he shrugs, lips quirking up in amusement.

 _His smile, god_. It’s a novelty that leaves him slightly dazed—eyes crinkling at the corners and laugh lines taking shape, a shape that he wants to study forever.

It makes him giddy, a warm, glowing feeling slowly expanding in his chest, and he can’t prevent the answering grin from stretching his face.

“I actually meant gulping it like it’s water in the desert,” he teases, smirking a bit. He can only hope he doesn’t look as euphoric and overenthusiastic as he feels, like he’s higher than a kite, when he walks up closer and extends a hand. “I’m Sander.”

Sander knows the name he’s about to hear, but he’s never heard it from the person it belongs to and that’s precisely what he wants. It’s what he’s wanted _for a few days_ , hour after hour of imaginary scenarios about meeting him going through his head. And every time a fantasy played out too fast, his mind would backtrack, carefully lingering on every small detail in it.

A hand comes up to clasp his and all those hundreds of variations on the same daydream all lose meaning in a pair of doe eyes locking with his and a softly mumbled “Robbe.”

Sander relishes the warmth of the smaller palm fitting in his for a moment, and the sensation of something falling into place, before he notices the smudges of paint on his own fingers. A rush of panic shoots through his whole body, causing him to withdraw his hand, before he realizes how ridiculous that is.

_It’s not like he’s aware those paint stains are the closest I could come to the shades of his eyes and hair._

Robbe’s gaze remains fixed on his hand, he seems to be contemplating the paint on his fingers, almost like he’s seeing right through him, before he looks back up to his face again. “Did you need something from the kitchen?”, his tone is friendly and, to Sander’s relief, shows no sign that he’s weirded out.

“Yeah,” he hums. “I wanted to pour myself a drink.”

“Oh. What do you wanna drink?” Robbe asks.

_You. I want to stay here and soak up every detail of your presence until it’s the only thing I feel._

“I was thinking of some gin,” he settles on.

“Yeah,” Robbe nods, an unruly curl flopping over his forehead. “I think there should be some gin here.” He turns around to the kitchen counter and reaches up, opening one of the upper cupboards.

Sander’s not completely sure if this is the universe fucking with him, testing him or simply giving him a chance, but Robbe can’t quite reach the bottle even on his tiptoes. He finds himself so unbelievably endeared by the sight that he’s moving before he even has the chance to think about the action, the physical pull as inevitable as gravity.

He closes the distance between them, invading his personal space, stands close enough to reach the bottle of gin, hand overlapping with Robbe’s.

He can feel everything, the warmth of the lithe body so close to his and the shiver that goes through it with a sharp intake of air. Sander unconsciously mirrors it and gets slammed with the scent of sweet vanilla and cinnamon spiciness, so intoxicating that he has to remind himself to exhale. He lowers his hands, one of them clutching the bottle, as Robbe turns around slowly, hair slightly falling over his forehead and his gaze strays to the side for a moment, before his lashes flutter and he looks up and smiles shyly at him.

Sander belatedly realizes that every minute he spent mixing paints these last few days, trying to get the hues exactly right, was an exercise in futility, _nothing_ will ever come close to the real deal. He won’t get the perfect shades, because they exist only on the rosy-cheeked and freckled canvas in front of him, in between tousled curls and framed by long eyelashes.

His excitement and their proximity mutes that part of his brain that tends to build first impressions of people the same way he studies his life drawing models. But he can’t think in proportions and accuracy and measurements, when he looks at Robbe. He can only get lost for a moment, somewhere between the warm light in his slightly dilated pupils and the place where his oversized t-shirt exposes a bit of his shoulder and collarbone, his brain replaying a single thought in a loop.

_You’re the most mesmerizing thing I’ve ever seen._

Forcing himself to snap out of, he looks to the side, eyes landing on the gin he’s holding.

“Well, that’ll certainly be 0 stars on Booking,” he says, mock-serious.

Robbe gives a slow blink, licking his lips and his nose scrunches up adorably in confusion, “What?” he mutters.

“There’s not much left of the gin.” He holds up the bottle, shaking the content. “But, wait, I think I have an idea.” He walks up to the fridge, opening it and looking for the things he needs.

When he does, he lets out a little triumphant noise and turns to Robbe, who’s leaning against the counter, silently observing him. He holds up the tonic and cucumber he’s holding. “How about some cucumber gin & tonic?” he suggests, grinning.

“Sounds good.” Robbe says, those beautiful laugh lines forming again with a hesitant smile.

“Awesome.” He goes to the counter, searching and quickly locating glasses and a knife and mixes the gin and tonic. As he starts slicing the cucumber, he hears it.

There’s an old radio playing quietly in the kitchen that he hadn’t completely registered up until this moment.

See, Sander doesn’t believe in god, or divine powers and intervention, but he can’t think of this as anything other than a clear sign. It makes the euphoria in his chest buzz even more strongly and he tilts his head, closing his eyes in bliss.

_I_

_I will be king_

_And you_

_You will be queen_

A second later, he looks to Robbe to find him staring at him with moon-eyed curiosity.

“Bowie, you know Bowie?” he asks with a wide smile.

“Uhm, yeah, vaguely.”

“As in, not really?”

“No, I do.”

His tone suggests that he doesn’t and Sander can’t help but tease him, just a little, “Okay, name three songs by him.”

“ _Space Cowboy_ … isn’t that one of his songs?”

 _How are you so fucking cute?_ “You mean _Space Oddity_.”Sander suppresses the fond look that’s threatening to overtake his face at the sight of Robbe’s bashful smile and the blush that coats his face. “Can you get some ice?”

Robbe goes to the fridge, kneeling to get to the freezer. As he takes some ice cubes and extends a hand to give them to Sander, he looks up from under his eyelashes, smile as innocent as a white snowflake.

_You really have no idea what you’re doing to me, don’t you?_

He swallows, taking the cubes from his small hand, trying not to shiver from the contrast of warm skin.

He puts the ice in the two glasses and spots a bunch of drinking straws on the counter. Placing two in each glass, he turns to Robbe with a grin, “Get ready to be mindblown.” He raises a glass, Robbe’s pink lips catching the straw. He tries not to stare at them, instead focusing on Robbe’s bright-eyed gaze, which is almost worse. “Good, right?”

Robbe lets go of the straw, nodding, a corner of his mouth lifting, as he says, “Yeah, best gin & tonic ever.”

There’s something so lovely, so genuinely pure and downright angelic about Robbe, that a part of Sander—the desolate part, the quiet inner chant of _you’re not enough, you’ll never be enough_ —is convinced that the closest he should ever come to touching him is when he spends hour after hour of trying to get every detail of his face right, of fruitless smudging and blending and shading. But he’s greedy when it comes to the things that excite him, always has been. It’s how he got good enough at drawing to get in the Academy, it’s how he made Bowie his passion, dozens of lyrics imprinted in his mind, providing comfort when he needs something to ground him.

He looks deep into warm pools of brown and smiles back.

Just then, a voice comes from the door of the kitchen, “Dude, Noor’s looking for you.” It’s one of Robbe’s friends—Jens, he thinks. “She seems a little out of it.”

Robbe looks up at Sander for a second and something in his face undeniably dims, before he nods, “Yeah, I’m coming.”

As he walks out of the kitchen, he turns around, giving him a look that’s brief, but filled with so many things, that Sander’s left in the kitchen, wondering if he imagined it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my tumblr is: musicofsilentkisses
> 
> you can come talk to me about anything and everything xx


End file.
